


Ravel

by cassieoh



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (for a given value of "family"), Dysfunctional Family, Footnotes, Gen, Starmaker Crowley, Stars, The Fall (Good Omens), space, spinning thread as a metaphor for Creation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 23:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh
Summary: The starmaker loves his work, though he's realizing that he might have a bit too much time to think.Lots of questions creep up on you in the unending night.
Relationships: Crowley & God (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 38
Collections: GOWC Write-It! Wednesdays





	Ravel

**Author's Note:**

> Ravel (verb)  
> 1\. to knit together  
> 2\. to unspool, unknit, or unravel

A lot has been said about what it means to Fall. Scholars and clergymen have written entire dissertations on the topic. They describe it as a great battle, as the penitent masses of Heaven throwing themselves down in their grief, as something filled with glory and good. They say that it is something humans should be aware of lest we slip towards it ourselves[1]

But, the pretty words of humans fail to capture the reality of it. 

It goes like this. 

In the Beginning[2] there were the Heavens and that was it. But, that is not the true beginning of things. 

Before the Beginning, there was God and She was alone. She was surrounded by all ever was and all that ever would be and all that could never be, every universe and every choice dancing through the soft roving of space-time. She took this roving and she carded it, aligning the fibers and creating gravity and then taking that new force and spinning it, tighter and tighter and tighter, her spindle dropping down and out and up and gathering up all the little bits of the was and would be and could never be and compressing them tighter and tighter until all that remained was a tiny speck. 

Then, She smiled and She spoke her first Word. 

_Let there be light._

And, in a great cataclysm, there was. The Universe burst forth, tumbling outward and sending all those wases and will-bes towards their final fates[3]. 

Now, we come to In the Beginning. God made the Heavens and the Earth and She made the angels to help her build the rest. She gave them jobs and She kissed their brows and She loved them. 

One such angel wakes, not too terribly long after that first bright explosion, and God sees the light of the Beginning in his eyes and She kisses his brow and teaches him how to gather the remnants of the explosion, how to weave them together in such a way that they recall their fiery origins, how to hang them in the firmament and let them shine, as brilliant and beautiful as Her Love. 

The angel delights in his work. He spends uncountable eons[4] far from the other angels, delving into the dark and pulling light in his wake. 

Then, he visits Heaven and he meets a few of the other starweavers and he loves them just as he’s always loved his work and His God. But, he’s been alone for so long, talking and laughing and singing to himself as he makes the stars. He has questions. 

Here is where the scholars and clergymen usually call their work done. They’ve explained how the Fall came about, they assert. See? You must trust in the Lord, you mustn't ask too many questions because they are a sign of failing faith and that can only lead to destruction. 

But, that is not the whole truth of things. 

The truth is this. 

The angel doesn’t fall for his questions, not just yet. He asks and he’s turned away, so he asks again. This time the other angels shy away from him, they glance at each other and they frown, small lines appearing on their faces where lines have never appeared before. 

The angel doesn’t like those lines. He doesn’t like his cohort thinking that he’s flawed in some way. So, he stops asking his questions. 

Or rather, he stops asking them aloud. 

He retreats back to the stars and he reaches out into the black and pulls forth the threads of starstuff and he wonders why he was assigned this job, what if he’d been terrible at it? What if he’d been brilliant but hated it? He doesn’t, he loves it, but that only makes him wonder if he ever had any choice at all in loving it. Was he made to do this job and never had any other choice or option at all? 

The questions plague him, eating away at the peace he gained through the companionship of the other angels. 

Here we must step away from the weaving metaphor[5]. The angel had spent his entire existence making stars, weaving them to life and watching with pride as they began to spin and glow on the strength of their own beings. 

Then, he has a realization. 

Stars are not weavings, they are not socks or tapestries or sweaters or any of the myriad other things that humans will one day craft from simple fiber. 

They are giant, flaming balls of gas. Atoms hurtling about and crashing into each other and exploding in brilliant, miniature cataclysms. 

And they are finite. 

The angel knows he is immortal, that he will never cease to exist. God brought him into being exactly as he will always be and She loves him for that. 

Why can’t he make something that stays? 

Why must his children burn and die? 

Why must he bear witness to their beauty, knowing all the while that they are only visible because they are burning through their lives. 

Stars are born, they burn, and they die and the angel doesn’t understand. 

He watches the first expand and explode at the same moment that Samael throws his lantern at God’s Feet and declares that he will no longer be her slave. 

Heaven descends into chaos and war and the starforger has no idea about any of it because one of his first creations is expanding, larger and larger and larger and then, it explodes and his heart breaks. 

There’s still something there, some remnant of the thing he made, but it’s different, broken and small, pale. 

He weeps. 

Michael pinions Samael and her tears burn scars into his flesh as she throws him down. 

The starforger whispers his final question into the void just as his brethren begin to Fall. 

“How could you be so selfish?” 

The starforger Falls. 

Good, he thinks. Then again, viciously. _Good. May she know what it feels like to watch your Creation burn and survive only to be small and pitiful. May it hurt her as it hurt me._

When Crawly wakes on the shore of the Lake of Fire he turns his serpent eyes Heavenward and nods, once. 

_I hope that hurt you as much as it hurt me._

Very quietly, a little voice at the back of his mind asks, “What if She didn’t even notice you went? What if she never cared about you the way you cared about the stars? What if you really are nothing more than something meant to squirm at Her Feet?” 

* * *

1. Setting aside that many of these same scholars already believe that the Fall of Man was brought about by a curious young woman who had no context to understand why wanting to understand was forbidden.The author will carefully say nothing more here, for fear of editorializing.↩

2. All tales must begin this way, for all that we do not always say the words, an unspoken “In the Beginning must precede, the Universal Constant prologue, as it were.↩

3. The could-never-bes will be left aside for now as their fate is far less pleasant↩

4. Literally, counting hasn’t been invented just yet.↩

5. I do hope the honored reader will excuse this diversion, it is necessary for reasons I hope will become clear.↩

**Author's Note:**

> Written in about 35 min and unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any typos <3


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